A470
Ffansin Ar-Lein Pel Droed
Cymru · On-Line Welsh Football Fanzine
Brazilian
football is not all it's cracked up to be, as Ade Colley found out
...
A striker and goalkeeper clashed going for the ball, two yards away from
goal.
Both fell over in the sand, the ball a yard away.
The striker, lying prone, looked like Fidel Castro in his prime –
bearded, barrel-chested, slight pot belly but muscular.
Still flat on his back, he slipped his foot under the ball, knocked it up a foot
in the air, swivelled and did a bicycle kick as the ball rose and the ball flew
into the net.
Unbelievable, we’d just seen a 35 year-old score while, literally, standing on
his head. I bet not even Pele managed that.
The keeper, understandably, stomped off in a sulk and played no further part in the match after such a public humiliation.
All
this on heavenly Copacabana where the Atlantic breakers pound in on the beach
with such a ferocity that the undertow rips the sand from under your feet and
you’re dragged out into the raging surf.
The sand is pristine and fine; it’s got the texture and appearance of demerera
sugar.
Everything
they say about Brazilian beach football is true.
And it’s even better than they say. After all, who else gets to play football
on sugar?
Ok, everyone was showboating to a degree (quite a few players had oiled their
chests for the occasion) but for a free spectacle, little in the world can match
it.
The nine-a-side match on Rio’s seafront was the most compelling, hilarious and
supremely athletic game a bunch of amateurs could produce.
Thunderous free kicks smashed into crossbars. There was manic commitment to all
out attack and ferocious tackling. At least half the players attempted bicycle
kicks – I haven’t seen more than one back in Britain in the last two years.
Sunday morning on Hackney Marshes is colourless by comparison.
If only Fidel and his pals had been playing later that day instead of Romario,
hero of the 1994 Brazil World Cup and himself a keen beach footballer, then it
would have been the perfect footy day out.
As it was – it was almost perfect.
Romario’s current club, Vasco de Gama, play at the picturesque Sao Januario
stadium in the north of Rio – a five-minute drive from the famous Maracana.
The club were reining Brazilian champions when they hosted Bahia – a side from
further up the country’s east coast.
The
33,000 capacity Sao Januario is bang in the middle of a rundown part of the
city, which has an unmistakably sinister atmosphere.
Before the match the narrow streets were thronged with young, tough-looking
fans. The girlfriend was convinced we were about to be hauled from the taxi and
murdered. (Two days later, several people were murdered on a bus, which was
hijacked by muggers – most, of whom were themselves gunned down by the cops.)
The Sao Januario’s main stand can seat maybe 10,000 people – it’s built to
look like a colonial home and has a cloistered walkway on the top, which extends
round to the top the stand behind the goal. Blue ceramic mosaics depict famous
scenes from Vasco’s past.
The stand’s a beacon of elegance among the shantytowns. We decided to go ponce
class and buy the best seats in the ground. These cost five quid apiece and we
took our places on the cast iron seats at the very spot on the halfway line
where you’d expect the Queen to sit.
How on earth Brazilian clubs can afford to pay the likes of Romario when most
people get in for a quid and the best seats are a fiver, is beyond this fan.
And maybe beyond the local fans too.
What ensued was the strangest welcome in football.
A 60 yard covered tunnel snaked out from under one stand and the players emerged
to a chorus of catcalls.
Fans in the cheap seats opposite started baracking Romario - their own player.
They then held up scores of offensive banners – “Fora Romario” – which,
presumably, told him to ‘get lost’ in Portugese, unless, of course, Fora
means something much nastier.
This riled the fans in the expensive seats on our side of the pitch. They rose
en-masse to give the cheapos the finger, hurl abuse and bellow “Ro-mar-yo”,
successfully drowning out their antagonisers.
So, fans of the same club split down the middle and singing songs to rile each
other. Hardly surprising that Bebeto said the following day he preferred to play
away from home.
In the middle – a glorious beacon of decorum and delight – was the pocket of
100 Bahia fans, gloriously upbeat unlike their sourpuss Vasco counterparts.
The Bahia fans brought their own band of four samba drummers who lit up the
whole game with a barrage of beats. The best one came when Bahia had a free kick
20 yards out. As a midfield hotshot lined up his thunderbolt, the band adroitly
played the rhythm you know so well from films – you know, the forbidding
crescendo of drums that precedes someone about to be guillotined or soon to hear
the hangman pull the trapdoor lever. Nice touch!
Needless to say, the thunderbolt could only manage to knock over a photographer!
But
even the band was topped – Bahia had brought their own formation line dancing
samba dancers. A glance over in the second half saw 20 fans sashaying their way
across the terrace, turning in an instant, as precisely as a military band. They
moseyed their way along to the other end of the terrace – all perfectly
synchronised. Easily the highlight of the match.
After the entire fan furore, the match was sure to be a letdown.
Romario played like a wanker. Even before kick off his attention was focused on
the cheapos. He gesticulated madly in the centre circle, indicating that all the
fans wanted was his money.
